


e%act c0py

by crassAdjudicator



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crassAdjudicator/pseuds/crassAdjudicator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aradia had spent her entire life surrounded by ghosts and shadows, privy to the whispers of the dreaming dead, yet even she proved unprepared to beard one of them in his lair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	e%act c0py

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [kink meme](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/9406.html?thread=16051134#t16051134). This version has been cleaned up and tweaked.

It didn't matter how much she'd told herself not to be afraid; as soon as she spotted the cobalt, notched arrow carved into one of the mountain's jutting peaks, her nerve nearly failed her.

It was stupid. It was so stupid. Most of them had been nice, or at least easy enough to get along with, which hadn't come as any great surprise: she had been listening to them for most of her life, after all, and meeting them in 'person' was more awkward than unnerving. Not him, though; not much, anyway. He of all of them had had very little to say to her, never much more than a reinforcement of someone else's plea or advice. Of the others, only the Gemini and the Pisces had been more silent than he, never speaking a single word to her--she'd always felt so bad about that; Sollux pretended to dismiss the ancestor thing as hiighblood shiit, but she knew how curious he really was, and had always hoped for something to pass on to him--but, well, it had turned out there was a very good reason for that silence.

As good a reason as the one for why she'd never heard her own speak. She couldn't repress a shudder at the thought. She'd always felt so lonely, hearing almost all of them except--but knowing why was so much worse.

It didn't matter. It didn't matter if she felt nervous or conflicted or frightened; she was the God-Tier Maid of Time, and she had work to do. He was the Knight of Void. None of this would work without his cooperation and, unless she had badly misjudged things, he would be only too happy to obey her commands.

She tucked her wings behind her as she drew close, settling onto one of the broad stone stairs leading up to the entrance beneath the sign with a slight thump. Even now, she loved to feel the ground beneath her feet, unreal as it might be, but she did not find the last ascent as soothing as she had hoped. She knew now just how big adults were, but even so, these stairs were ridiculously proportioned; it took her five steps to cross one. Was it arrogance? A predilection for intimidating architecture? Whimsy? Some logistical reason she couldn't fathom?

There was no denying Equius was a freak. What might he have grown into, given the chance?

It didn't matter. She'd find out shortly. She made herself approach the looming entryway.

She had never expected to discover that it was beautiful. Shockingly so. She'd never seen a hive like this; never imagined _anything_ could look like this. Once she'd stepped through the great, yawning portal, it had taken her eyes some time to adjust to the darkness within--the lights were low and flickering, uncertain and untrustworthy. But she'd soon realized that they were actual gas lamps, their flames burning eerily green--she'd seen many of the fixtures in her excavations, but never an actual working model--and, once her fascination with their functioning had worn off, she found herself able to step back and appreciate the rest of their surroundings.

Filigree. Filigree _everywhere._ The swirling, jagged designs were complex enough to make her eyes cross when she attempted to follow them. It looked as if channels had been carved out of the bare stone, and then set flush with some kind of shiny metal; not silver--too dull--but not steel, either. It gleamed dully in the lamplight, barely bright enough to draw attention to itself, giving the walls, the ceiling, even the floor an almost velvety, brocade texture.

She found herself turning in circles, awestruck, simply admiring the sheer level of _effort_ that must have gone into it, the strange, subtle beauty of it, and wondered what kind of mind could have dreamt it up. She felt a weird, inexplicable conflation of then and now as she regarded the stippled vista before her. She would have given anything to have excavated this place, back on Alternia; to dig it out, to puzzle over it, to polish it, to try to winnow out its meaning... but to _see_ it as it was meant to be seen was so fine, so shocking and rare and strange...

But, then, everything was strange, nowadays. She felt her lips quirking in a sad smile as she considered the amazing inlay before her in a rational light. Was this how his hive had truly looked in life, or was it only the fancy of a dead troll made manifest? Still breathtaking if so, but... she was honestly sorry she'd thought if it, as she looked around the cavernous, tattooed entry hall once more. It stole a bit of the magic from the slight reality she beheld.

Yet... Equius. His single-mindedness. His incredible skill. His dogmatic attention to detail. What might he have come up with, had he ever chosen to look outside himself? With a new, sudden chill, she could very easily see him chipping these kinds of patterns into a mountain, with his bare claws, if necessary, and bending the metal to fit with the uncanny strength of his fingers. He might have done something like this. Might easily have done so, had it ever occurred to him to _try._

Hugging herself, she pressed forward.

The next looming doorway let out onto a short gallery. The faintly gleaming inlay flowed into this room as well, but here confined itself to panels along the floor, letting itself spill down the curved staircases at either end of the landing. Peering over the wrought-iron balcony, she could tell only that the hall was vast; barring a small spot almost directly beneath her, it was shrouded in almost total darkness. The wall the door was set into was smoothed and finished, but it seemed that with the exception of the inlay at their bases, the rest of the walls had been left bare and jagged, stretching away into blackness that hid the roof from her.

Clutching the cool railing of the balcony, she leaned over, trying to pick out what lay below. She wondered at the light source; suspended from a chain hung somewhere above, it was almost painfully bright, steady and white, a metal shade directing its illumination straight down. A great stone slab lay beneath it, hemmed in by--tables? Trays? Carts?--and, a little further away, a looming huddle of bookcases. Matching shelves were affixed to the rough stone of the wall.

His workshop. Of course.

She padded softly down the left-hand staircase, grateful that its steps were less gargantuan in scope than the entryway's. Yet as quietly as she tried to move, her footfalls still seemed to echo resoundingly in the cavernous vastness. She began to glance around with no small degree of nervousness; surely he'd hear her, surely he'd come to see. She drew to a halt at the border of the pool of light and waited.

There was no sign of anyone else's presence. She might have been alone.

She peered once more into the blackness surrounding that tiny island of almost eye-watering brightness. She could make out no other doorways, no further signs of habitation, and she did not relish the idea of letting herself be swallowed by the darkness, a hand feeling against the wall her only guide. At a loss, she found herself drifting into the cocoon of illumination to examine what lay there.

The stone slab was meticulously smoothed and planed, rising nearly to her shoulders; a worktable, obviously, though she wondered at the channels that ran the length of each of its sides, and the notched corners they led to. The nearby tables bore a weight of tools, all carefully laid out in order of size, surrounded by spools of wire in a dozen different shades of blue. She found herself lingering over them, marveling at their vague familiarity. She was no expert, but while robotics was an ancient and noble art, she was surprised at how many of them she recognized; she had assumed there would have been advances, but what was spread before her now differed from Equius's collection mostly by the neatness in which it was kept.

She scanned the bookshelves idly--most of the volumes, while handsomely bound, bore no titles on their spines, and those that did seemed to be technical manuals--but her breath caught in her throat as a faint gleam of candy orange amongst the scrolls lying atop the books in the spaces between shelves caught her eye. The orange knob at the end of the scroll curled slightly and, yes, the roll of vellum was gray--that _had_ to be a second edition of In Which A Witty Greenblood Travels To Many Places Which Do Not Actually Exist And All Of Which Are Thinly Veiled Mockeries Of Her Imperious Condescension’s Policies. First editions were generally of more interest, but this particular one had been inscribed on scrolls made from the author's skin and capped with slices of his horns after he had been tortured to death for treason, the Grand Highblood's protests that it really was funny no match for the Condesce's fury.

Her eyes widened. It was one of the great lost works, and even though some part of her knew it wasn't really _real_ , she nevertheless itched to get her hands on it. She barely realized that she was hurrying around the table until her foot caught on something heavy and unyielding, stopping her with a jolt of pain and a clatter of metal as she nearly tumbled to her knees. Startled, she glanced down to see what she'd tripped over.

Shackles. The chains bolting them to the narrow end of the worktable lay coiled neatly within their circular steel confines. Her pulse sped up as she glanced back and forth between them and the channels carved into the stone slab, regarding them in a sickening new light. As if to eagerly confirm her worst suspicions, her gaze caught one of the trays pulled nearest to the table, and her heart sank. What she had taken for yet more hand tools weren't, not at all; she was not looking at pliers and paring knives, hasps and drills, but forceps, scalpels, bone-cutters and augers. Each one shone brightly, as meticulously clean as everything else she had come across, but it made her feel no better at their presence. She jerked her head up to glance at the gallery's railing, trying to make out its details in the dimness. Were those twisted bars of wrought iron, as she had originally assumed, or were those the black knobs of femurs?

She made herself exhale a shaky breath through clenched teeth, grasping once more for calm. It didn't _mean_ anything--well, it did, of course, but that had been one of the few of Equius's outré interests that had ever proved useful. Medicine was a dangerous thing for trollkind, practiced mostly privately and in secret; his blue-blooded arrogance had given him the nerve to admit to his skills, and while he'd had his successes and failures, it had kept several of their friends alive and almost whole. Vriska would have been culled as soon as the drones realized what had become of her, of course, but Tavros... he hadn't needed to do that--it hadn't made _sense_ for him to, given his disgusted condescension towards brownbloods in general and Tavros in particular--but he had. To please her, or Nepeta, or to render Tavros more capable of assisting in their struggle, or whatever other inscrutable reason that might have satisfied his prejudices--when called upon to assist, he had done so. Almost graciously, in fact.

Perhaps what she saw here had its roots in similar impulses.

Or perhaps Equius had simply been curious, and had appreciated the opportunity to practice two of his skills; what did it matter if it didn't work? A credit to his pride if it succeeded; only a gutterblood dying in agony if it didn't.

The Condesce's E%ecutor, alive at the height of the second bloodiest rebellion in all of Alternian history, would surely have suffered no shortage of subjects.

Until he died.

It didn't matter; it _didn't matter_ , she insisted to herself, growing angry at how sick and scared and small she felt even as fear bloomed anew within her. No matter who or what he was, she would be fine. She could stop him, whatever he tried; she could _make_ him do what was necessary if it came down to that. Everything would be fine. She would be okay.

The soft scrape of leather on stone nearly sent her leaping out of her skin. She whirled on her heel, her wings snapping out instinctively, and as she settled onto her feet, she _stretched_ them to their full extension, billowing silken sails of maroon and scarlet flaring around her like a halo. She wanted to feel capable and strong and powerful, but if she couldn't, she at least wanted to look it.

It still took her a moment to spot him; it wasn't until he moved, wiping his hands and dropping the towel he'd been holding onto a nearby table, one gray hand passing briefly into the light, that she fixed on his presence. It was as if a piece of the darkness had made itself manifest; as if a chunk of the rough-hewn wall had torn itself free and stood up. She could make out almost nothing of his features, standing beyond the ring of light as he was; a faint shine on his horns, a gleam reflected from his eyes--lenses?--and a sense of immeasurable bulk.

He tilted his head to regard her--lenses, definitely lenses--for what seemed like an endless moment.

"Goodness," he said.

His voice was higher than she'd expected, hoarse and adenoidal, but the harsh, grating quality she'd come to associate with adult voices was a rumble from him, lending him an eerie resonance that the echoing hall did much to emphasize. Equius bellowed; this one almost whispered, as if he knew no one would dare give less than the fullest of attention to his speech.

They stood that way for a moment too long as she struggled to come to terms with the strange mix of fear and excitement that coursed through her. Finally she straightened, fluttering her wings a little as she did so, letting them settle back into a more natural position. "Hi," she chirped. "I'm Aradia!" Her cheerful demeanor wasn't a put-on, but it was not quite as natural as it had been when she first ascended; she had discovered that it generally confused people enough that they simply went along with her. Killing people with kindness was not quite as easy as smashing them to death with giant rocks, but it made accomplishing goals a lot easier.

He inclined his head--she thought; the light shifted across the red bases of his horns, at least. "Miss... Megido." He enunciated very carefully, as if tasting the syllables. "I've been expecting you."

Flutter, flutter, flutter, concentrate on keeping an even beat, don't shudder, don't _flinch._ Did they talk to each other? It hadn't seemed like it, but... "You're Darkleer, right?" she inquired brightly, knowing full well whose bubble she was standing in. It had been easy enough to get most of them talking--they all seemed fully aware that they were dead, at least, which came as a pleasant change--but she had a bad feeling that small talk was going to fall flat here. Still, no harm in trying.

Another slow toss of his horns. "If you like," he replied, and this time she was pretty sure she'd failed to disguise her jerk of startlement as he stepped slowly into the light.

The Capricorn had been bigger, she told herself, trying to stay calm; and it was true, he had been, but not by much.

This was almost more terrifying: based on how the others had looked, she had expected Darkleer to be _massive_ , a great, hulking brute, and he was, but only by dint of scale. Tall and broad, he was sleekly muscled, rather than swollen with them. His careful movements, as his measured tread brought him ever closer to her, should have been dainty, mincing even, but his sheer size made them intimidating in an almost completely alien way. This was clearly someone who was as fast and keen as he was strong. Sculptors would have vied for this troll's forbearance as a model; critics would have still been contemplating their works, had it not been for his disgrace.

But his face... she'd been staring, and she had to look away because it was _him,_ and that gnawed at her in a way that none of the others had, not even the Taurus. His features were broader, with an even more badly broken nose, and he'd acquired the long, horizontal ears of an adult, but that was only age; the strong jawline, the expressive lips, the same sleepy eyes... but there was that terrible difference, white lambent orbs set in a stranger's face so familiar it closed her throat.

She blinked furiously, trying to get ahold of herself, trying to concentrate on the differences and snap herself out of it. Darkleer had managed to keep both of his horns, but his right ear was badly tattered, its outer vane an almost complete mass of shredded scar tissue. They must have stripped him of his earrings when they exiled him, she realized, but even so, the extent of the damage surprised her; in the modern fleet, a successful commander might have sported four or five, but _his whole ear_... "Your medals," she said sadly, before she realized it, and then wished she'd bitten her tongue as he froze for a moment.

He stared at her wordlessly for a moment, and then opened a drawer. As tightly strung with anxiety as she was, she had to struggle to stifle a giggle when he extracted a pair of rectangular eye-shades; of course. Averting his gaze, he slipped them on, using the excuse to shake his hair forward--that was different, too, she realized, its raveling ends falling nearly to his elbows.

Then he turned his blank, unreadable gaze on her.

She found herself falling back a step as he approached once more, his slow, deliberate movements more alarming than outright threat. When he drew abreast of the stone slab, he reached up and did something to the light that greatly reduced its glare, but any gratitude she might have felt as the ease of that discomfort was quickly stolen by his next words.

"I wish," he said, "that this night had never come."

This was stupid. This was _stupid_ and it was getting out of hand even though they'd barely said ten words to one another yet. "Sorry," she snapped, folding her arms across her chest. "You don't have to do much." She exhaled with a hiss, remembering to whom she was speaking, wishing she hadn't lost her temper for even that split second. "But it's really, really critical!" She tried for bubbliness. "We won't be able to pull any of this off without you!"

One side of his mouth drew back in an expression that left no doubt as to the origin of his name. He smiled like a Subjugglator, wide and sinister and with too many sharp, sharp teeth. She realized, for the first time, that but for a few degrees of difference, he would have been one; she wondered if that explained anything.

He leaned a hip against the table; to her surprise, the top section gave, sliding back with the sound of grinding stone. The channeled part was only a handspan or two thick--perhaps he removed it when his current project didn't need to _drain_ \--but the ease with which he moved it was still unnerving. He only pushed it back a few inches, and then sat on the slightly lower surface, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle between his thighs. She noted how plainly he was dressed; some kind of close black jumpsuit cut off at the elbows that, strangely, bore no hint of his color or sign. She could pick out various snaps and buckles, undoubtedly where the armor or padding attached, but the only vague attempt at decoration were a pair of black bands around his wrists.

They regarded each other silently; seated, he was nearly at her eye level. She searched his face for some hint of what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She hoped he'd say something. She tried to think of something to say, witty, charming, earnest, _anything_ that might sway him before things got ugly. She even wished for a little bit of Vriska's luck, but had a feeling those dice would have come up snake-eyes for her. Finally, she sighed, letting her shoulders slump and her wings sag. He was dead; she could compel him; could split off a doomed version of herself specifically to grubsit him, if she needed to. There just had to be a better way. "Why do you wish it wasn't time?" she asked. "This is the most important thing any of us will ever do in our lives--maybe the most important thing anyone is ever going to do! We are going to _get_ him, once and for all." She felt a smile of her own tugging at the corners of her mouth as the words left her lips, because it was really true; she'd been there, she'd seen it, _she'd seen it._ She let the laugh bubbling up from her throat escape, throwing her head back and reveling once again in the notion that it was _really going to work._ "We really are!"

His grin softened into a wistful expression, but the tips of his ears were perked as he steepled his fingers. "Because..." He glanced away, flexing his hands awkwardly, before looking back at her with what might have been, on anyone else, a charming smile. "I find it extremely difficult to confront the results of our exceptional foolishness."

She paused, startled; he straightened, clapping his hands on his knees. "None of this should have happened, Miss Megido," he said. "You should not stand before me now. I would give much for it to be otherwise. And yet after all that has happened, all the havoc we have wrought upon all of Alternia, you face me with good cheer, and kind words, and pity for my wounds." His ears fluttered in a gesture she wasn't quite sure what to make of. "I would say it is a fine thing, did I not know well what sort of crucible you have been forged in."

She was taken aback; of all the various ways she had imagined this meeting might go, this had not in any way been one of them. That had practically been an apology! "So... you're in?" she asked lamely. She didn't know what to make of this--this _chivalry_. Was it a joke? A trap?

His smile broadened, just a hint of teeth this time. She gasped aloud and backed away until her wings hit the bookshelves as he slithered from the table, sinking to his knees before her. He sat back on his heels and laid his palms flat on his thighs; even now, he barely had to tilt his head to look up at her. "All shall be done as you say." The rumble in his voice grew more prominent, deep and carrying. "Only bid me where to go, little shepherd."

"Um... okay!" She clapped her hands together, completely at a loss as to what to make of this, but willing to take it at face value for the time being. "Uh... have you been... talking to the others? Do... do you know something I don't know? You seem... really with it!"

He shook his head once, a short, final gesture. "We were told that we would not stand together again until we met on the Battlefield once more." He flicked an ear. "Little did we realize." He sighed, a cavernous exhalation. "But I know that the Doctor does not lie when he speaks, and I know your symbol. The hour of assembly must draw nigh."

"Well, we're not _quite_ there yet. Shenanigans have yet to ensue; very _secret_ shenanigans, which will need some fast and deep cover." She waggled her eyebrows at him. "Sound like fun?" she asked, and regretted it even as the words left her mouth; his fingers dug into his thighs as his expression shuttered.

"I... things have always been this way, but they are nevertheless very recent," he said, lifting his hands to gesture to his hive, the dream bubble, perhaps even corporeality in general. "It's very... well, I suppose you do understand." She gave him her best encouraging smile. "I have refrained from extensive exploration of the... pasture I now find myself roaming, and I am uncertain as to whether I will be able to leap the fence on my own."

She bit the inside of her lip until the flesh squished between her blunt teeth; exes and hoofbeasts and oh Gog he was so nervous, so embarrassed to admit how frightened he was of breaking something he didn't understand, but he did it anyway, and didn't even start sweating until her silence had drawn on a few beats too long, reaching up to wipe his forehead with one of his wristbands. This whole encounter had been so strange and nerve-wracking and now sadly hilarious that she was tempted to step out of time, steal a few moments to laugh or scream or possibly break something, but instead she winked at him. "It's okay! I can open the gate for you when the time comes."

He dipped his head, and, yes, he was definitely blushing, his blue blood almost navy behind the gray of his skin, and suddenly it clicked, snapped into place with such obvious force that she was amazed she hadn't picked up on it the instant she'd heard something besides condescension or hemofascism come out of his mouth; he'd even _said_ it as soon as she'd greeted him. "You're not him," she said wonderingly, amazed that she was even capable of making such a temporal mistake. "You're... you're the one who got Scratched! You're not Darkleer at all!"

"Oh, but I am," he said, the sudden icy chill in his tone almost palpable. He pushed the hair away from his torn ear and flicked it violently to make sure it caught her attention. "Every single one of those was awarded for high distinction in the service of the Imperial Fleet. I won my place beneath Her Imperious Condescension's heel by--" He cut himself short, shook his head. "I am... everything you might expect," he said primly, and she was sickened by the unmistakeable hint of pride in his voice, until his ears drooped, his shoulders slumping. "But I can also remember when things were not as they are."

The pain in that admission was one she had come to know well in recent--days? perigees how many times had her heart beat while she flittered between timelines?-- _times_ , the absolute insanity of _knowing_ that something had happened when it just as obviously hadn't, but she had no time to soothe him, no room in her mind for compassion, nothing but the sudden, burning, all-encompassing desire to know.

"What was it like?

He canted his ears, one corner of his mouth quirking. "I suppose there is some poetry in asking a Hero of Void for tales of a place that isn't," he said finally, "but I have none for you. Go and look for yourself."

Her pulse quickened, and she actually glanced around--an unseen portal leading into prehistory would be one of the least strange things she had recently encountered--but found only the almost familiar blackness, and her shoulders slumped as she realized what he'd meant. "I can't," she admitted. "I tried as soon as I learned of it, but I can't find it."

"Correct." He nodded. "It has been excised. It is as if it never had been. There are only ghosts, and scarcely even that." His expression softened. "Those are the stakes you play for now. That is what will befall anything and anyone you leave behind."

"But you could still tell me about it!" She spread her hands, frustrated, her wings flapping for emphasis hard enough for the breeze to disturb the ends of his hair. "We've got a whole new world to make ahead of us! It sounds like... like you guys were pretty alright, the first time."

"And look what came of that." He snorted, clasping his thighs, and she was worried for a moment she'd offended him before realizing it was a brief laugh. The pale white glow his shades couldn't quite obscure disappeared as he closed his eyes, and he was silent for a long moment. "Think the best of us you can. Think of everything that could have been and wasn't. Think the worst of us writ small rather than enshrined." He opened his eyes once more, a faint smile playing along his lips. "That is how it was, and that is what you can take with you."

She balled her hands into loose fists, disappointed, but she couldn't give up just yet. She felt strange, wheedling him like this while standing before such a still, submissive figure, and so dropped to the ground to sit cross-legged, allowing her wings to pool around her, and tried for winsome. "I--we could really use some pointers. We already made our world, and we messed it up. Made it barren." His eyebrows rose in alarm, his eyes widening so much she could see the tips of his luminous white scleras. "No no, it's okay! Our species--I mean the humans--the species we made--is in on this too!"

"Even if you have only succeeded as we did, it is still a success," he said, but there was something dubious in his tone.

"No, seriously, a lot of this is their show; they got so mad they busted right out! But they're not _mean,_ they don't even do kismesissitude, they're--" She struggled, at a loss for words to describe how amazing their new friends really were. "You'll meet Jade Harley human pretty soon; you're going to do a lot of work with her, and it's really important you guys get along. I think you'll like her, though; she's a lot like Nepeta. Err, our Leo."

The change that washed over him tugged at something deep within her; where before he had simply been sitting still, he now _held still_ , as if afraid to betray his reaction. Eventually he steepled his fingers once more, looking away from her as he tried not to fidget; she wondered if he even realized he was making a diamond with his thumbs and forefingers. She struggled to think of how to describe Nepeta, tell him all the good things about her, how to explain roleplaying in a way he'd understand, and suddenly realized that she could tell him the unvarnished truth. "She's _very_ dedicated to comporting herself apurropriately."

If he caught it, he didn't remark on it, and the shy, happy look he gave her immediately dismissed any guilt she might have felt for leading him astray. It was hard to believe this was the same troll she'd been nervous enough to back up from; he was just so _pleased_. Enjoying his reaction, she struggled to think of what else she could tell him. "She's a major catalyst for our plans, and she's nipped a lot of problems in the bud for us." He leaned forward slightly, ears cocked as if to hear her praise all the sooner. "She's always willing to go one step further, um, and she always stays positive..." She struggled not to stumble; how did they manage to keep up with these puns? "Um, she's Equius's moirail..." She found herself unable to think of what to say next; she'd made it a rule not to discuss descendants with their ancestors, and to slip up with _this one_ , of all the possible mistakes she could have made...

He settled back on his heels after a time, watching her cautiously. "Er," he said.

Yes, er, indeed. She struggled to think of some graceful way to change the topic, but the harder she thought the more flustered she became.

"Are you... well acquainted with them?"

"I... um." She folded her hands in her lap, no longer quite able to meet his gaze. How did you gracefully tell someone, let alone someone like this, that their descendant--the _Heir,_ no less--was... was _Equius?_ She groped desperately for something unloaded to say. Why yes, we were very close, because... He's excellent at robotics, which he uses to... He's enamored with hoofbeasts because... He's so immensely strong that he can't... "We... I, um..."

He saved her by lowering his head in acknowledgment, letting his ears droop. "I suppose it is unfair of me to expect you to indulge my curiosity when I will not do the same." His thin, hoarse voice sent a strange feeling through her that she fought to prevent from turning into a shiver, as if she hadn't already made it screamingly obvious.

"It's, um. You'll probably meet them soon!" she offered as a consolation, before her wits caught up with her; it wasn't fair not to tell him why. "They're... they're here now, too."

She would not have thought it possible for his ears to lower any further, but they did. He settled his palms on his thighs once more, his talons digging slightly into his knees, then sighed, looking up and straightening his ears with a snap. "I see."

"Only a handful of us are still on the other side," she said, trying to take the sting out of it. "We couldn't do this at all if we didn't have at least a few sets of duplicate Heroes."

"Then I am extremely pleased to be of service."

He sounded as if he meant it. Of course he did. She couldn't help but smile, but it soon became tinged with sadness; there were still some nasty twists ahead of him. "About that... you guys, I mean the ancestors, I mean, um, are probably going to be facing off against the Empress."

He arched an eyebrow. "Yours?"

She shook her head slowly. "No. The Condesce."

His ears raised and his brows drew down into an expression she recognized only too well. She waited for him to tell her to cease her ridiculous tomfoolery at once, but he only assumed that perfect, stone-cut stillness once again, as if the sheer enormity of contemplating such an idea deprived him of the ability to do anything else. She waited, her lower lip caught between her teeth, unable to think of anything else to do but let him come to terms with it. After a seemingly endless silence, he whispered, "So be it."

She shot him an open, honest look of gratitude, having some notion of just how hard this might be for him. "It's... this part's gonna be weird. You need to be totally prepared for it to happen, but it might... she's just so close to Doc Scratch, I can't get a complete handle on it, but she's definitely going to be there, and you guys..." She held up her hands in a gesture that was half shrug, half plea.

He nodded. "I understand." His voice was calm, but tension was writ in every line of his body; even as she watched, his brow began to dampen. He did not like this topic, and she could hardly blame him; she tried to think of something to say, but was surprised when he continued. "Er. I'm afraid it ill behooves me to fail to rein such an impulse in, but I simply can't--er," he trailed off, looking firmly at the floor, his ears lowered submissively and his fingers once again knotting themselves together, and she didn't dare to look and see what symbol they might be forming. She knew what he was going to ask, wanted to cut him off, wanted to rewind time and make the conversation not come out this way, but his voice was so soft and sad and hopeful that she had to close her eyes, because he might look up at her and she couldn't bear to see the expression someone who sounded like that might wear. "What became of...?"

She tried not to let her wings droop, tried not to let it show in her face, tried not to let her pain or shame or grief devour her, tried to put a good spin on it, tried to lie, and almost succeeded. "I'm not sure," she whispered.

She could tell anyone else in the world that it didn't bother her, but not him, not with that earnest quaver in his rumbling, breathy voice, not with the sudden, sickening realization that as far as he was concerned, he wasn't the only ghost in the room. Hiighblood shiit indeed, so many of them eager and excited and dedicated to finding out who it was that had come before them, so many who would happily have killed for the privilege she'd been granted, but this little lowblood would have gladly yielded that easy, obvious receipt of knowledge up to any of them. And so she'd searched anyway, and in much the same ways, the net first, books, the odd corners of the landscape around her hive; but she was one of the very few to take it further, into canyons and caverns and the most ancient of ruins, always searching, always hungry for the next discovery, always hoping that would be the one that finally proved that no, it wasn't so, she wasn't really the descendant of the Demoness.

"She's still alive," she said.

That was one she had never quite had the nerve to try on Equius, asking him if _he_ could open the simplest of Alternian histories and find his ancestor's visage glaring back at him; it might have finally shut him up. But she was too leery of the fact that none of them seemed to have put it together, when it seemed so blindingly _obvious,_ the horns, the maroon-rimmed eyes, the bizarre flat teeth; for her, sopor slime often kept away visions of what might befall her once her adult horns came in. She'd tried to kid herself that she was only frightening herself, but now, of course, there was no doubt that she'd been right all along.

"She was our Sylph of Time." His words were barely audible.

She pursed her lips, not sure if she was about to smile or sob. A Sylph; of course. The conveniences of a manufactured world. "She didn't even arrive until after the Glub."

But the thing that terrified her the most, the one that had sunk its roots into her most deeply, whose embers she found herself trying to douse even now, was how _exciting_ she found the idea. She'd even cherished it for a time, clutched it close to her chest whenever a highblood slighted her, whenever she had to fight off a sharp-toothed lusus that wanted to eat hers, whenever there wasn't enough to go around: the wonderful, vicious, wrathful fantasies of what the Demoness would do in her place, and the dawning, addictive realization that she could do some of those things, too, if she wanted. When it got too much to stand, sometimes she did, and that was fine, that was normal, she was as vicious and fierce as anyone else no matter what the highbloods said, but most trolls weren't descended from the terror of their _entire species,_ most trolls didn't lash out at their own caste so implacably, most trolls did not wreak so much devastation across the face of the universe that any kind of true serendipity would have provided them a loving moirail to eat them alive in grubhood. And if she had walked down that path, she might have given herself away. Someone would notice. Someone would put two and two together and come for the Demoness's spawn before she grew too unruly to handle.

So she had stopped. She'd given up her anger, and found that most of her other feelings had gone with it, but that was okay. She could put on a pleasant face. It was safer. She did so now, exhaling a long, slow breath, making herself open her eyes.

It was another moment before she could force herself to look up at him, could prepare to help him deal with whatever sadness or disappointment her news may have brought him; when she did, she was riveted. She had expected sorrow, and that was there, but not in the way she had expected. His glasses had slid down his nose, and even in their featureless depths his deep, grieving sympathy was unmistakeable. "We all cast long shadows," he said, "but she was the only one among us capable of covering the world in darkness. An achievement, in its own way. I had only hoped..." He looked away, his fingers woven together, and he sighed. "I won my place as the E%ecutor because I nicked her, once," he continued, his hands flexing against one another as if he drew a bow once more. "Even now, I would give anything to have put her out of her misery." He looked back up, meeting her gaze steadily. "She _was not like this,_ Miss Megido; none of us were, but she suffered perhaps the cruelest reversal of all. You must try not to think too poorly of her," he said quietly, coaxingly. "She--she may yet..."

"But _why?_ Why _her_ , out of all of you?" she burst out. She wasn't going to cry, no, but she might _scream,_ might-- "It could have been anyone, Scratch could have sent anyone anywhere, and--" Her jaw snapped shut so hard she nearly bit the tip of her tongue as the sudden, horrifying realization sunk in. It was all there, all _right there,_ if you knew what you were looking at; just the kind of sick joke he seemed to delight in. In every etching, in every portrait, in every picture ever made of her, it was right there: the long, pointed sticks shoved into her knotted, tangled hair. "She did it, didn't she?" she breathed. "It was her idea, wasn't it? She Scratched you."

And then had gotten to spend millenia wallowing in the nightmare she had wrought for her entire species, got to continue to leave her fingerprints all over the hellish lives of the monsters she had created; had gotten a front row seat to every tragedy, every genocide, every great horror that had ever befallen them, courtesy of the good Doctor.

"We begged her not to..."

But she had to know. Scratch wouldn't have had it any other way. She had to _know,_ to be fully aware of what she'd done, what she was doing, what it all meant. For all of that time, for all of those terrible acts... She felt dizzy, her pulse pounding in her ears as she struggled to make sense of it. She'd been asking herself for sweeps what the Demoness would do in her place, but now she tried to put herself in the Demoness's. What would that _do_ to you? What would that twist you into? What kind of troll could _survive_ like that?

"...and we tried to stop her..." She looked up at Darkleer, at that kind, careful expression that was everything that should have been and wasn't, whose ruined ear and butcher's grin gave proof of just how badly it had all gone wrong, and tears finally pricked the corners of her eyes, but it was so _stupid_ , she was not going to cry, not at this troll who had been willing to let his world die rather than turn it into the abattoir it had become and _still wanted to help her--_

"...but she was the only one among us who had the courage to do what was necessary." She blinked furiously, trying to get ahold of herself; his smile was a mixture of concern and understanding. "It was something I struggled with myself, for a..." He raised his eyebrows briefly. "...long time. But she _hated_ the game, Miss Megido. Hated it so much she wanted to tear it pixel from pixel, and the cue ball and coat besides. Hated it so much that that she learned it intimately enough that she thought she could do it, but we proved unworthy of her plans." He flicked his ears in acknowledgment, embarrassment, regret, she couldn't tell, too enrapt by his words. "But a reset... a reset to a world designed almost perfectly to engineer its future players... she believed they'd be able to do what she failed to. I questioned its merits, its probability of success..."

He reached out, slowly, and took her hand with a soft, delicate touch. She let him, unflinching, unafraid that he might crush her, simply enjoying the soothing feeling of his cool, callused fingers closing over her hand, the unexpected beauty of the joyous, triumphant grin he now wore, the shocking, breathtaking pleasure that was blooming in her chest as his words began to fall into place. "But here you are, little shepherd, come to lead us to victory at last."

She stared up at him, her throat so tight with emotion she couldn't have spoken even if she had known what to say. He squeezed her hand gently. "You've come farther than I ever dared imagine," he said. "She would be proud of you."

"You're... you're telling me the _truth?_ " she managed finally. "She... she wasn't _bad_?"

"Goodness, no, she was absolutely awful." He raised his ears, his amusement at the shock on her face evident. "She was very nosy, and insisted on being in the middle of everything; she could throw the most excessive tantrums, and thought it the extreme height of comedy to allow her lusus to butt me once she learned that I wouldn't push it away." He arched an eyebrow at her, the very image of offended dignity, and that did it. She clapped her hands over her mouth in an attempt to stifle a giggle. He smiled, sad and reminiscent, as if pleased his memories could finally do some good. "She was many... _many_ things, but she wasn't bad, Miss Megido. Never," he finished softly, as if to himself, and just that easily, she lost her powers of speech once more, but it didn't matter. She didn't have to ask; his feelings for her were written in every line of his body, every plane of his face, and she was overwhelmed by the awful, worthless pity of it. They'd never known each other in life, a small blessing some of them at least had gotten to enjoy; he'd never known _either_ of them, had had to go through it all alone, and while he might be reunited with his moirail, at least for a little while, he might never meet her ancestor again--and who would she be, if he did? _What_ would she be?

She'd hated them a little, when she first learned what they'd done, learned that her entire species had been doomed to millenia of warfare and bloodshed by _choice,_ but that had quickly burned itself out; hadn't she and her friends done something almost as awful? Even if it hadn't, looking at him now, a sorrowful, grief-stricken, abandoned ghost-- _scarcely even that,_ he'd said, and he was right--she would not have been able to sustain it, not in the face of such wrenching evidence of how severely they'd been punished. She'd been through the loops, endless unwinding spools of time, and couldn't even promise him a _tolerable,_ let alone happy outcome; she'd come to recruit them as foot soldiers, as highly skilled cannon fodder, thinking of them as little more than dreamselves with extra abilities, and the others she'd met so far had been so strange and fey it hadn't changed her opinion.

Now she knew why Darkleer had wished she'd never arrived; even now, with so much priceless knowledge she'd clutch so close to her heart, some small part of her wished she'd never bothered to speak to him, because now she _knew._ They'd just been frightened, confused wrigglers, much less equipped to deal with the situation than she and her friends, who'd been tricked into a terrible deal and plunged headlong into the nightmare alongside everyone else without even the scant comfort of knowing _why,_ and now she might have to spend them like boondollars to finish the job they'd started and they might never get to know how it came out, let alone reap the spoils. The Demoness had damned herself and her friends, damned their entire species and any other trolls had ever come across, in the hopes of being able to save the infinite rest of them, and she and her friends could not fail their purpose, but she couldn't do anything for him, couldn't even tell him it was all going to be okay with any level of confidence.

She unfolded her legs and rose to her knees, gripping his hand tightly, her eyes burning when his arm locked, immediately offering his strength to aid her even in this tiny little way. He peered at her over his shades, watching her cautiously, but obligingly lowered his head when she tugged on his hand. Even so, she wouldn't have been able to manage it without her wings for balance; she still had to lean over his bent legs to reach up and lay her palm against his cheek. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, stroking his cheek.

He was still and solid beneath her touch, unmoving as stone, but his voice was unsteady. "You have nothing to apologize for." He watched her warily over the tops of his shades, blank eyes gleaming.

She smiled, turning her hand to brush his cheekbone. "I'm not apologizing," she said, despite how much part of her insisted she ought to be, "I'm just..." She met his gaze, catching her lip between her teeth. She laid her hand over the back of his, and realized with a tiny start what the hard, smooth material that met her fingertips must be. He wasn't wearing wristbands; those _were_ his wrists, wrought of his own design. Her gaze quickly followed his arm and, as expected, she could see a tiny slice of gray skin between what she had taken for his elbow and what proved to be his actual sleeve, and was stricken anew by the terrible, worthless _waste_ of it all. Of course his own torturexecutors had torn him apart before he'd been banished; what better punishment could there be to add a little sodium to the wounds? It had worked wonderfully; he'd carried those scars with him into the afterlife, still unable to escape the humiliation of his exile. And still so lost, so lonely, all this time...

She raised the other hand to cup his face, the tips of her fingers not quite reaching the curves of his jawbone. She had no real comfort to offer him, nothing but her attention and her sympathy, if she could find some way to have this proud, miserable troll accept them, but he was observing her so nervously it was clear she was only making things worse. She couldn't _do_ anything for him, couldn't think of a solution to offer him, but then it didn't matter because she wasn't even sure which of them had moved but his mouth was on hers, soft and still, and suddenly she could think of nothing else.

It was his precise, utter lack of movement that finally brought her back to herself: he was _waiting_ , for her to react or proceed, and that was so strange and wonderful she was nearly in tears again. But that would upset him so much more than simply pulling away, and she wasn't sure if she could stop herself now, wasn't sure what she was doing or feeling, and so she concentrated on the feel of him beneath her palms, on her lips, trying to find something to cling to in the sensations but even that was so maddeningly _familiar_ it shook her to her core. He'd taken her careful explorations as encouragement and was kissing her now, so slowly and softly and sweetly she was trembling, and that was wonderful and terrible because that was one of the things that had infuriated her the most, realizing that the things Equius did to her felt good because he'd programmed them to, and that she'd never get the chance to find out if they actually did. But now she was and they _did_ and that was so huge, so overwhelming, that she couldn't make sense of it and she couldn't stop _shaking,_ and she was wrapping her hands around the back of his neck and he was still _pulling away,_ raising his head to nuzzle one of her horns, her cheek, his breath cool and damp on her skin.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered between ragged breaths, "tell me no," and she would have, but he was running his claws along her hood just hard enough to send delightful shivery feelings along her scalp, and anyway he used that _tone,_ that not quite cringing whine that crept into his voice whenever he was being particularly crazy, and she _hated_ that, so she dug her nails into his neck right _there_ instead. She got the strangled _hrk_ she was expecting, and it was so much better, so much deeper she practically felt it rumble through her, and he caught her up and set her down in his lap, so broad she was kneeling on his thighs, and as she went to wrap her arms around his neck his mouth closed gently on one of her horns, the points of his teeth settling into her whorls as if they'd been filed to fit and she gasped, bracing her hands against his shoulders to keep from falling. The weight of his hair swept over her like a curtain and he was _touching her wings_ and that was _amazing,_ like the feeling of catching the perfect updraft all concentrated down into the trails his claws left as he drew them along, and why couldn't it always have been like this?

He gave a great, shuddering exhalation as he raised his head, slipping one arm deftly behind her wings to wrap around her shoulders, the other around her waist, and pulled her close against his chest, trapping her arms between them, tucking her head beneath his chin. He held her like that for a long, long time, and that was good too, feeling the deep throb of his heartbeat beneath the steady rise and fall of his breathing, feeling safe and relaxed against his massive bulk. He kneaded her back with the pads of his fingers, and when he found her flight muscles the tension flowed out of her back as if he'd unzipped her spine, utterly melting her; she sagged against him, letting him support her completely and reveling in the feeling, until he sighed ruefully.

"We need a pile, girl, not a pail."

She wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed or simply incapable of reacting to the strangeness of the situation in a rational way. "It wouldn't even work," she mumbled into his chest, but she found her hands snaking up his chest to wrap around the back of his neck, her fingers interlacing.

His hands stilled on her back. "I love a technical problem," he almost purred, that alone nearly enough to set her trembling again, but when she looked up, his expression was already transforming into one of chagrin. "I apologize," he whispered. "This is extremely lewd of me and utterly unacceptable, it's simply... you're... you're so very like her..."

She closed her eyes, unable to make herself behold that kind of loss and longing. Not while they were so close. "I kinda know what you mean," she said and, before she realized she meant to do it, she leaned back and butted him in the chest. He hissed, and then he was shaking, too, his chest heaving, and she could not deal with that, could not deal with this kind of grief and pity and confusion running riot through her, but he wasn't sobbing, he was _laughing,_ and gathering her close once again. She rose to her knees, balancing on his lap, and flung her arms around his neck in a tight hug, and he didn't seem to mind the point of her horn digging into his jaw, just hugged her back, arms placed just so around her lower back to support her if she wanted to lean, and it was _okay._ It was actually pretty great.

It was hard to make sense of herself just then, and she wasn't sure if she'd ever understand, but she stayed in his embrace and thought about what could have been, and what was, and how hard it was to make amends. About breathtaking artisan work hidden away where almost no one would see it. About what wanting to help someone so much you'd chain them down and slice them up might be like. About just how badly the looming shame of an ancestor could twist you.

Finally he leaned back, extricating himself from her grip gently. He raised a hand to run one callused thumb lightly along her jaw. "So very like her," he repeated, so quietly that she almost felt it as much as heard it. "And your burdens are as heavy as hers," he continued, the wistful pity in his voice making her swallow thickly. "You mustn't let yourself be led astray looking for lost ones in the shadows, little shepherd." His hands were suddenly around her hips and he was lifting her as if she were a shadow herself, setting her down lightly on her feet as he rose to his own, and she _was not going to cry_ , so she simply started in the direction he gestured to, blinking to clear her vision.

She preceded him through the yawning darkness and whatever horrors and wonders it might have swallowed; climbed the curved staircase once again, and did not consider its construction; found herself once more in that astonishing entry hall, a thousand dull gleams skittering through the dimness wherever her gaze fell, his looming form a step behind her all the while, never out of reach.

She turned to face him, catching her lower lip between her teeth. He sank to one knee, so close they were nearly face to face, and met her gaze over his glasses. The eerie green light of the gas torches lent him a nightmarish air, outlining the stark planes of his face with shadow and hiding his luminous eyes in deep pits, but all she saw was an ally, just as weary and heart-sore as she was. "Thank you," she said finally. "For agreeing to help, and for... telling me about her..."

He took one of her hands, enveloping her palm with his own. "It is my great honor and privilege." He squeezed gently. "I hope you have the most successful of journeys ahead of you, Miss Megido, and that someone extremely... that your efforts are appreciated," he finished lamely, his ears lowering, and she had to smile, having a good idea of what he'd started to say.

She stared at him, not quite sure what to make of him, not quite willing to walk away yet. "I hope..." She trailed off. She hoped she could make everything come out alright for him. She hoped he'd meet her ancestor again, and that she'd be who he thought she was. She hoped some day someone would look at her the way he did when he thought about the Demoness. She hoped it really was going to be okay.

He raised her hand to his lips, softly brushing the backs of her knuckles. "It is the best thing we can possibly do, Miss Megido." He smiled, his ears perking. "So very few of us are fortunate enough to get second chances."

Her heart felt as if it skipped a beat and she shook her hand free, rising on tiptoe to grab the bases of his horns and plant a kiss on his forehead. "I'll be back soon, okay?" she whispered into his hair, struggling to keep the quaver out of her voice as she pressed her cheek against his. The coolness of his skin calmed her enough to let go; she settled back down and forced herself to look him in the eye. "Really soon. We're gonna make this happen."

His smile broadened as he inclined his head. "In your own time, Miss Megido," he said. "I shall await."

And that was that; she couldn't do this any more, couldn't take it. She spun on her heel, marching resolutely towards the massive stone door of his hive. She _was_ going to make it come out right, somehow. She had all the time in the world to figure it out.


End file.
